Spirits that I've cited
by HautkopfofUlm
Summary: After Root's escape, Finch feels so conflicted about what The Machine has done that he comes down with a fever. In his delirium an imaginary Nathan helps him realize the truth about The Machine and about Finch's fears. Can Finch still command the spirits he has cited or are they turning against him? He can only hope Reese will be by his side when he finds out.
1. Prologue

**AN:** I haven't posted any FF _at all _for about 2 years, so I might be a wee bit rusty. Also, I might be German, so forgive any weird grammar, expressions, words, typos etc. "As of now, I beta myself" ;)

**Concerning the story**: *spoilers from here on*

I wrote this "missing scene" after the ep where Root escapes the asylum because I found it a pity that they never touched on The Machine's role in it. This is my interpretation of Finch's thoughts on that. I decided against adding Shaw to the plot, so this plays out before she gets abducted by Root. I actually found that the rest still fits into the Series 3 time and plot lines even with the latest ep and after seeing the promo for 'Mors Praematura' I'm thinking: Maybe Finch is right to be afraid. I'm sure I am wrong, but I'm intrigued by The Machine's decision to set Root free, as I hope you are by my story. Can't wait for next Wednesday (time zone delay yada yada)! Enjoy!

* * *

"You feeling alright, Finch? You've been looking a little under the weather today."

Reese tried to sound casual so as not to set off Finch's mental Fort Knox mode, but he was concerned about his friend. He had been for several days. Even Shaw had noticed that something was off. Finch seemed to try hard not to let it show, but it was getting worse slowly but steadily. Reese had noticed it first about two days after Root had escaped. Finch had become quiet, intense, even more withdrawn than usual. Reese had tried to make him open up, talk about his fears and concerns with regard to Root, but Harold had only fed him general snippets and bits, even attempting a light-hearted quip here and there. But their banter had been gone for some days now and so had Shaw. Finch not so subtly had suggested she take a vacation. There would have to be oil poured on troubled water later, but he couldn't worry about Shaw now. He did worry about Bear, though. The Belgian Malinois now wasn't found within a 10 feet radius of his brooding master and his confusion showed in a loss of appetite. Maybe Reese could talk some sense into his friend using the dog's welfare.

"Actually, so is Bear. He hasn't been eating right these last few days. Someone once told me that dogs are very sensitive creatures, they pick up on all sorts of negative vibes -"

"There are more important matters at hand than the analysis of my complexion, Mr. Reese. As for Bear, I am sure his lack of appetite chalks up to your feeding him all kinds of dog-unsuitable morsels." Harold gave him a disapproving look, but his heart wasn't in it. He seemed a thousand miles away even now.

"The number's wrapped up, Finch. Everything's peachy and nobody got shot. So what is so important that we can't talk about the wry face you've been pulling for the past week or so."

Harold didn't even dignify that one with a reaction of any sort and from this Reese knew he had hit a nerve.

"What – you don't like me bringing up the elephant in the room? Because I've tried everything else, Harold, so this is sort of my last resort."

Harold sighed. "Go home, Mr. Reese, I'm sure your elephant will be gone in the morning."

"Actually, _I'm_ sure it won't since every time I come back here it's grown bigger… I'm trying here, Harold, but you'll have to work with me. Something's bothering you and I want to… be a part of it. Is it Root? I won't let her get to you aga-"

"I don't _have to_ work with you, Mr. Reese. If I let you in on some of my concerns in the past, that was a privilege that you cannot expect to be granted every time."

"So you admit that something's going on."

"I am similarly aware of your mind games as you are of my something being the matter, so since we established this counterpoise, I really see no point in further discussing said matter with you."

"Well, _I_ see a point, Finch. I'm concerned about you. Not as your asset, as your friend. And until now you've given me no good reason to stop probing, so what is it? Are you ill? Are you in pain? Did something happen to Grace? I wanna know about this stuff, even if I can't help."

Harold sighed and to Reese it looked as if he had to force himself to look him in the eye.

"I appreciate your concern, John, I do. But all I can assure you of is that it is neither life-threatening, nor can you do anything to help. So please let it go. I'm fine."

"You look like hell."

"So do you, if I dare say so."

"I got hit by a car, thrown into the bay and was nearly canned by a trawler today, Finch, I think I've earned the right to look a little worse for wear."

"You smell it, too."

"You're really doing this, Finch?"

"Do what?"

"That whole… martyr thing you've got going on. Because it's getting pretty old pretty fast."

Harold got to his feet and for a split second Reese felt the urge to grab onto him as he saw the man sway slightly before he sat off into the belly of the Library beast. Reese suspected his only aim was to get away from him. He started to feel rejected.

"Let us all be brave enough to die the death of a martyr. But let no one lust for martyrdom. Mahathma Gandhi. I have no lust for martydom, Mr. Reese, simply for some quiet and peace with my systems and tea. So please, enjoy your evening and don't forget to bring pastries in the morning. Good night, John." Harold disappeared around some corner. Reese left without another word.

When Finch was sure that he had successfully fobbed his nosy asset off, he slowly made his way back to his work station. He didn't mean to show his vulnerabilities to his assets and friends, but running a number while also running a derailing thought train had started to wear him down quicker than he thought. He took his seat and stared at his green tea. He felt slightly sick just thinking about drinking it. He really did feel lousy, he had to admit. It felt like the fevers he came down with during his childhood. The doctor used words like 'sensitive' and 'idiopathic' and 'psychosomatic'. Back then he didn't have a computer to look them up, so he didn't understand them and neither did he understand why his father kept looking at him with these disappointed, condescending eyes. Harold shook his head to get rid of the memories and had to grab onto the desk when he felt his sense of balance leave him abruptly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes.

"The Machine doesn't get sick Harold, so neither can you!" Nathan had once joked when he had felt the same sometime back then. A lifetime ago. But he could still feel the encouraging pat on his back. Nathan. He saw his reflection in the screen smile sadly at the thought of his late friend. He nearly fell out of the chair once more when his face blended into that of his former colleague.

"Nathan?!"


	2. Monologue

AN: I am sure we all had really weird conversations with products of your brains, if not in deliriums, then in dreams. Then you also know that we can get sidetracked in them quite easily and that said brain-persons may or may not have attributes they never had in real life. So I hope you bear with Harold's Nathan and Harold's confusion :)

Sorry for wonky formatting, but I have long forsaken to command the spirits of Word and Doc Manager...

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He nearly fell out of the chair once more when his face blended into that of his former colleague.

"Nathan?!"

He was too surprised to hold back. Of course he also knew that it was completely delusional. But not only did the face answer, it developed a body as well while the Library background seemed to fade away in some very thick mist.

"Hello Harold. It is good to see you again. What took you so long?"

"I don't even know how I got here. Nathan, where am I? Did I fall asleep? I'm not… dead, am I?"

"No, no. At least I don't think so. But how can I know, I am just a product of your brain. You realize that, Harold, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. You're dead, Nate, how could I forget."

"You couldn't. And you mustn't. Because you still need me. Need my two cents to keep you real."

"Is that why you're here?"

"I suppose. Though you should know that better than me, my friend."

"I miss you."

"You still have The Machine. There will always be a part of me in it."

"Do I? Lately it feels like The Machine has me."

"So, Harold, if you already realized that, why are you still talking to me?"

"I don't know what to do, Nathan. How can something that I built and I not act in concert?"

"Oh please, you've known the answer for years. Maybe even from the beginning."

"No. It can't be."

"Of course, Harold. Isn't that what every geek wants deep down? To build something greater than life? Well, congratulations, my friend, because you. have. pulled. it. off." He mimed a telemarketer.

"Never."

"The machine is more than what you built, Harold."

"No, no! I know every line of its code. It does what I programmed it to do!"

"Yeees! And more."

"That's impossible. I assembled it, how can there be more than what I put into it? Than what you put into it?"

"The Machine evolved, Harold. It developed a consciousness and all that. I don't know, you devoured all those sci-fi novels, you told me about _The Washing machines' Revolt_ and all that crazy Soviet literature. You laughed about it back then, ever the rational genius, but I always saw the potential in The Machine.

"Stanislaw Lem was a fiction author, Nathan, fiction doesn't translate to reality."

"And yet it's the truth."

"Washing machines are revolting?"

"You're getting distracted, Harold. Stay focussed, this is important."

"I try, but nothing makes sense, Nathan."

"What doesn't?"

"I… I feel… betrayed by, by The Machine."

"Well how can you feel betrayed by something without a consciousness?"

"That's not the point, Nathan! I locked her away in that asylum, but, but not only for my sanity, Nathan, but for hers, too. I believe I was quite generous in doing so. But The Machine…"

"Disagreed? Disapproved?"

"Yes. No! How can it, it works for me."

"Oh, does it?" Nathan seemed amused.

"…Doesn't it?"

"You tell me, Harold. You're the one who says one thing but witnesses another."

"You're not helping, Nathan."

"Yes, that's because you still balk at the prospect that The Machine might have outsmarted its creator. So - sorry, but as long as you won't face the truth with your whole heart, I can't be more direct."

"I really should be going. I don't belong here. _You_ don't belong here. And I really need that tea. And Mr. Reese is already worried." Harold turned around, though there really was nowhere to go in the white nothingness.

"Yeah, sure. I can't keep you here. Old broom."

"What?"

"Oh come on, Harold, you know the poem, you even recited it to me by heart once. In German, because you were so taken by the sageness of the great Goethe…  
Hat der alte Hexenmeister

sich doch einmal wegbegeben

Und nun sollen seine Geister,

auch nach meinem Willen leben."

„Don't ridicule yourself Nathan, you were never into German classics."

"No. But you were. But you're right, it just doesn't have the same ring when I say it. Alas, in English, my dear fellow:

Come on now, old broom, get dressed,

these old rags will do just fine!

You're a slave in any case,

and today you will be mine!"

"Your point being?"

"No, no longer  
Can I please him,  
I will seize him!  
That is spiteful!  
My misgivings grow the stronger.  
What a mien, his eyes how frightful!"

„You were always hopeless with metaphors, Nathan. If you're trying to insinuate something, you should first decide if I'm the broom or the apprentice."

"Yada, yada. The important thing is what you're _not_."

"…"

"You know how in ye olde lore at some point the apprentice will always prevail over his master? You were intrigued by the poem, because that one time, the apprentice fails."

"Yes?"

"Ah, he comes excited.  
Sir, my need is sore.  
Spirits that I've cited  
My commands ignore."

"My commands…"

"You wanna know what I think, Harold? Of course you do, because I am merely you and you have a decision to make."

"No, I don't-"

"I think you're afraid. Afraid of the spirits that you've cited and that now ignore you."

"Don't you dare, Nathan – you know nothing about The Machine, you haven't maintained it since –"

"Since I built the backdoor? Admit it Harold, The Machine is out of control and no spell in the world will turn it back into what you want it to be."

"That's not true."

"Then why haven't you told John about how Root escaped? Why are you keeping this from him? You said you will never lie to him."

"Keep John out of this."

"That's ridiculous, _you_ are bringing John into the conversation, remember? Are you embarrassed that The Machine is baffling your plans?"

"No, that's not it…"

"You're ashamed of yourself because you haven't told him. It's not too late you know." Nathan had come very close to Harold and was now patting his cheek.

"Stop it, Nathan! What are you doing?"

"He'll understand. You can't carry that burden alone forever. It concerns him, too."

"No, it doesn't need to. I can fix this, Nathan, I can fix The Machine-"

"Wake up, Harold! You're. not. the. master. anymore!" With each word Nathan was now shaking Harold by the shoulders.

"But if I'm not the master, then who is?!"

"Does there have to be a master? Maybe The Machine is its own Master now? You even said so yourself, that it controls itself. It doesn't need you. It doesn't _want_ -"

"Nathan, that's enough!" He pushed Nathan away.

"Harold! Stop fighting me!"

"Harold! Harold, snap out of it!" Nathan's face and voice contorted and weirdly merged into those of his current partner, though he stayed slightly out of focus and sounded quite far away.

"Mmmr. Reese…"


	3. Dialogue

"Mmmr. Reese…"

"Harold, are you with me?"

"Yes… uh, I think so… where's… "

"Can you sit up?"

"… … What?"

"I found you on the Library floor, mumbling in some feverish fit. You're running a high fever, Harold."

Something cold and wet was put on his forehead. Harold tried to clear the fog from his meddled thoughts and let the Library come back into view. Nathan was gone and so were his crazy recitations. A stabbing pain in his lower back was very present now, though. He realized that he was laid out on the cold, hard floor of the library. His head was bedded on something soft and judging by Reese's state of undress it was probably his coat and jacket. Behind Reese's concerned face, he could see the cobwebbed ceiling of their lair. Wait, was Reese unbuttoning his vest? And why the hell was he on the floor at all? That was just undignified!

Harold sat up so suddenly that Reese knew what would happen before Harold did and got behind his ill friend as a precaution. The pulsating headache hit at the same time as the headrush and Harold briefly wondered how with all that pressure in his head, there could still be too little blood to keep him conscious. His vision darkened and he felt the floor tilt (or was he tilting towards the floor?), but something soft and warm broke his fall. He couldn't tell for how long he floated in the strangely soothing whooshing sound in his ears and the spotty blackness before his eyes, but when he finally got most of his senses back, he found a hand presenting a glass of water and a second hand with a cocktail of pills. Somehow he was propped up with the back against… something now. He had the feeling he had only caught the last words of a longer speech.

"Take these and drink this. All of it." For some reason Reese sounded positively livid.

"As soon as you think you can make it down the stairs, I'm taking you to see Dr. Tillman."

"No!" His voice sounded much shakier than he imagined and the argument he was going to make was already turning against him. "No doctor. I'll be fine. I'm fine… now." He heard himself say it but didn't quite know where the words had come from. All he knew was that they were true.

"Harold, you told me you were fine when I left here two hours ago and now I come back because I felt that something just wasn't right to find you in a delirium on the floor and confusing me with Nathan Ingram." Harold glanced up at Reese, horrified at the idea, but found nothing but the truth in John's features.

"John, I am so sorry." he said softly.

"I don't need an apology. I need you to cut the crap and let me take you to a doctor." Another glass of water appeared before him and he accepted it with shaking hands, then Reese was gone again.

Harold downed it in one and finally started to feel slightly more alert. He heaved himself up onto the couch, propped up his elbows on his thighs, his face in his hands and couldn't quite suppress a little moan. Reese placed the cold cloth in his neck and Harold clumsily wiped his face and neck with it. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture Reese had never before seen on Harold, but always suspected he had to perform a lot. His hair got even spikier and it almost would have put a smile on his face if he hadn't been so livid.

"Harold. Doctor. Now." Harold seemed to be either in deep thought or just blatantly ignoring him.

"The more you ignore me, the more of a pest I'll become and you really don't want to put me to the test on that right now."

"Then I will have to declare myself unfit to walk down the stairs, or to even make it to them, Mr. Reese." His employer looked up at him and Reese was surprised to find his gaze not just much clearer, but adamant. "Have a seat, John. I need a moment to think and your to-and-fro is making me all…" He waved his hand vaguely around the room.

"You won't be able to think if your brain _denatures_, Harold!"

"It won't. I've had this happen before. When I was a kid, I had a fever – "

"You're not getting off the hook by citing Pink Floyd, Harold."

But when Harold just blinked at him, obviously not understanding and again with his thoughts not quite there, somehow Reese realized that his fussing wasn't in order right now, that Finch was trying very hard to work through something. He fathomed then that maybe he would be alright, after all. His body had pushed the issue until Harold had been forced to deal with it. He quietly sat down and studied his pale face.

"What's going on, Harold? You've seemed… bothered these past few days."

Harold looked at him then with an expression he had never seen before and that he couldn't quite place.

"John… I think, I am going to stop to pursue Root."

"What?!" Maybe his brain had already denatured.

"It's what she wants."

"So you're doing what Root wants now?"

"Not her. The Machine."

"The Machine has a gender now?"

"Ms. Groves likes to think so."

"Harold, you're not making any sense. This is just the fever talking – "

"John, please. Hear me out." Harold seemed to ponder his next words carefully.

"For reasons that I still struggle to understand, The Machine has quite taken to Ms. Groves. I can't explain it, but I can't counter it either. I cannot go against my… The Machine."

"Harold, please for once be honest with me. Is this Root's doing? Did she contact you, did she talk to you? You know how well she can manipulate people. If she somehow got to you, we can talk about it, we can figure this out –"

"She helped Ms. Groves escape."

"Wh- it _what_?!"

"I talked to her psychiatrist and checked his story by hacking into the medication distribution system and the CCTV. I didn't tell you before, because I didn't know what to make off it. That The Machine seems to have a mission for Ms. Groves –

"No- Haro-"

"They planned her escape together, John. Who am I to work against that?"

"The Machine didn't plan _anything_, Harold. It's just a machine. It is what you built and it does what you programmed it to do. Nothing more. It is… _you_."

"And that is where we were wrong, John! Don't you see? The Machine was never only a program. I didn't want to see, but Ms. Groves's escape made it clear to me. The Machine has a mind of her own…"

"This is insane. Root kidnapped, tortured and nearly killed you -twice. She shot Corwin and Weeks in cold blood. And the Machine helped me find you. Why would it put you in danger now?"

"I don't know, John. But I know I will have to find out. The Machine doesn't seem to think that Ms. Groves presents a risk anymore. So I will have Root come to me. Or -"

"To do _what_?! Code away together happily ever after?!"

"To decide about the future of The Machine."

Reese's jaw dropped. Then he shook his head.

"I can't let you do that, Harold. Root tried to destroy the Machine. Have you forgotten?"

"No John, she never meant to harm The Machine. She wanted to set her free." Harold swallowed and took another sip of water. "And it pains me to no end to acknowledge it, but I believe she was right."

"Enough! Are you listening to yourself?!" Reese jumped to his feet and was now pacing their 'office'. "You sound just like her!" He gave himself a few seconds, striding to the other side, then back. "I don't understand, Harold." he finally said, defeated.

"I know, John. Neither do I. But The Machine wants something and right now neither Ms. Groves nor I know what that is. So I will let The Machine have her way. And I hope – " Finch's voice broke and he had to clear his throat "– that although you don't approve, I will have your support. Because frankly John, I don't know if I can do it without you."

They looked at each other for a long time, Finch still a picture of misery but trying hard to look _fine_, a blanket of which he had no recollection how it got there draped around his shoulders and Reese, towering, hips at his hands, before him.

"Or what?"

"… P-Pardon?"

"You said that The Machine doesn't consider Root to be a danger to you. But there's a second possibility you didn't mention."

Finch swallowed, hang his head and Reese thought he saw his eyes become even glassier.

"John, without realizing it, I have tortured The Machine since it was created... since I created it. When I found out that she tries to store… her memory… it broke my… I realized what I had kept from her. Ms. Groves always understood The Machine."

John rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"I apologize for not coming clean with you sooner. But I simply wasn't ready to discuss the… spirits that I appear to have cited." Harold swallowed again. Reese quirked an eyebrow at his weird choice of words, but Harold didn't give him time to inquire on it.

"John - what if The Machine decided that _I am_ bad code? That she's better off without an admin? What if The Machine set Ms. Groves free to come after me?"

_~~~End~~~_

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**AN:** I know this ending comes rather abruptly but I like it that way and I AM the master of this story, muahaha. Consider it a cliffhanger and cue the ending theme of the series. I won't, however, come back to this story as next week's episode will render my musings meaningless and AU. I really just wanted an angsty Finch being scared of his own creation and its sudden irrationality.

I also won't ask, beg or plead for your reviews or comments. If you feel passionate about my story, you will comment regardless of my pleading, and if you don't, you wouldn't anyhow. If that makes sense.

Cheers for reading is all I'll say :)

Hautkopf

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**Notes:**

For all those who never had the pleasure of having to recite it in school (no, I didn't mean that in an ironic sense):

The Poem is 'Der Zauberlehrling' by Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Or in English: The Apprentice. No, don'teven DARE to think about that godawful movie with Nic Cage!

There are several translations and I believe I mixed two of them.

There really IS a novel by Stanislav Lem called 'Der Aufstand der Waschmaschinen' or 'The Washing machines' Revolt', but I translated the title myself since I can't be sure if it ever was translated into English. My dad loves it (and all the weird Soviet SciFi) and until this day, when technical stuff gets borked in our family home, we fear the mighty Washing machines' revolt ;)


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